The Snow Gypsy(81)

Chapter 29

Granada, Spain

Lola was on the edge of consciousness when the door of the cell opened. At first, she thought she had died in her sleep, because the figure who came toward her and sat down on the bed looked like an angel. The scant sunshine coming through the window lit up golden hair wound into two thick plaits that encircled the head like a halo. It was a noble head, neither feminine nor masculine, but something in between.

“Buenos días, Lola.” The voice was strong but gentle, the Spanish words tinged with a foreign lilt. “My name is Aurora Fernandez. Your friend Rose Daniel wrote to me.”

“Rose?” Lola struggled to raise herself up from the bed, muscles that had once been so strong wasted by weeks of meager food and inactivity.

“Yes. She told me what happened—what caused you to do what you did.”

“Who . . . how did . . .” Lola faltered, confused.

“I’m sorry—I should have explained.” The woman tucked a stray wisp of blonde hair behind her ear. “I’m the wife of the mayor of Granada. I’m English, like your friend—although I don’t think she knew that when she wrote to me. She said that she hoped that as a woman, I might understand the unfairness of what had happened to you. She asked me to intercede with my husband. To get the murder charge dropped.”

“C . . . can you do that?” Lola’s lower jaw trembled with emotion, making her teeth rattle out a staccato rhythm.

“I’m trying. Nothing’s certain—not yet. But I wanted to come and see you—to let you know that there is some hope.”

“Th . . . thank you, S . . . Se?ora Fernandez.”

“Please—call me Aurora.” She reached inside her bag and produced a parcel wrapped in waxed paper. “I brought you this. It’s tortilla. And there are plums in here, too.” Her hand went back inside the bag. “I would have brought more, but I have to be very careful. The relationship between my husband and the chief of the Guardia Civil is a delicate balancing act. It wouldn’t do to take too many liberties.”

Lola unwrapped the package. The tortilla was still warm from the oven. She brought it up to her face, breathing in the intoxicating aroma. “Why?” she whispered. “Why are you doing this for me?”

There was a moment of silence. Aurora’s eyes searched the wall beneath the window, her irises almost translucent as the light caught them. “I had a friend who went through a similar ordeal as you. It happened during the war. Her name was Freda. We both came to Spain as nurses from England, and we were taken to a field hospital on the Aragon front. It was grim, but for me it had a happy ending: I met my husband when I was treating him for a gunshot wound. But my friend . . .” Aurora paused, closing her eyes. “She went for a walk on her own one night, just to get away from all the horror on the wards, and she was raped by a gang of retreating soldiers. We didn’t find her until the following morning. She died of her injuries a few days later.”

Lola could find no words. She reached out her hand, but it froze in midair. A woman like this—clean, fragrant, respectable—wouldn’t want the touch of a filthy, unkempt creature like herself. But at that moment, Aurora opened her eyes. Seeing the hand suspended above hers, she grasped it firmly.

“I couldn’t save Freda,” she whispered, “but I’ll do everything in my power to save you.”





Chapter 30

Pampaneira, Spain

Rose was sitting in the armchair, resting her ankle, when Zoltan and Nieve returned from the village.

“How did you get on?” Zoltan glanced at her foot, which was propped on a stool. “I hope you didn’t overdo it.”

“It was fine—I found everything Maria wanted. And I saw badger cubs—three of them—playing by a waterfall, just a few yards from where I was sitting.”

“Really? I’ve never seen badgers round here. You must show me.”

“I will.” Rose smiled. “Hey, Nieve,” she called, “where are you going?”

Instead of running up to Rose and kissing her, Nieve had dropped her schoolbag on the kitchen floor and was heading out the door with Gunesh.

“What’s the matter with her?” Rose asked.

“Oh, she’s grumpy because her friend Pilar wasn’t at school today.” Zoltan took the kettle from beside the fire and went to fill it. “She says she doesn’t want to go tomorrow unless Pilar’s back,” he called over his shoulder.

“How are we going to know that?”

“We’re not.” Zoltan shrugged. “I tried bribing her with the promise of migas for supper, but she turned her nose up at that. Apparently, someone in her class said migas is what poor people eat.”

“Probably Alonso, from the mill,” Rose replied. “He’s a troublemaker, like his mother.” She eased herself out of her chair and went to wash her cup while the kettle was boiling. “Talking of the mill,” she said as Zoltan spooned coffee into the pot, “was there anything for me at the post office?”

He shook his head. “Sorry. I bought you some stamps—if you want to write again tonight, I can post them tomorrow.”

“Thank you—that was kind of you.” The prospect of composing all those letters again—in Spanish—was daunting. She wished she’d kept copies of the ones she’d sent. It would have made it a lot easier. But she had been full of optimism when she’d posted the first batch. It hadn’t occurred to her that nearly three weeks on, she wouldn’t have received a single reply.